Review of Grudge Match

I will cry when Sylvester Stallone and Robert De Niro die.  In the past I have thought about celebrity deaths that will be difficult to stomach, but only after watching Grudge Match am I sure that those two will cause a genuine sense of loss.

The movie is easy.  The story is straightforward.  And as a bonus, a black man and an old man use their societal advantages to provide the audience with guilty laughs.

The movie is almost good enough to be called “good” even if the viewer hasn’t seen Raging Bull or any films in the Rocky Saga–almost.  Then again, no movie would be comprehensible if all context could be removed.

It’s humorous the way each fighter is equally the underdog.  We have underdog versus underdog.  Luckily, the respective underdog attributes are acted well-enough to birth some curiosity.  By the time we find ourselves calling the filmmakers names for not having the courage to use Rocky’s theme song one last time to accompany the mandatory training montage, we do wonder how the fight will end.  And we nurse a hope that it will end the way we want it to, whichever way that is.  Surprisingly, the film’s writers and director are more on point than we ever could’ve imagined.

In the final round of the fight we arrive at two specific moments that explicitly reveal the film’s theme, and whether these moments are taken together or individually, that theme proves to be well worth the, at times perfunctory, 90 minute commute.

In short, if you remain undecided about watching it, watch it.

She Can Hurt You

Who are these men?  Where do they come from?  What forces form them?  Is it nature?  Is it nurture?

Is there a specific set of childhood variables that must exist in certain quantities in order to produce these men?

We must admit that one attribute that these men have in common is ignorance.  As children, during the formative years, they must have been ignorant and unaware of situations where women hurt men.  Oh sure, we’ve all heard of poor John Bobbitt’s pain, but, seriously, what man considers amputation a likely outcome that need be guarded against?  In fact, there’s probably a man somewhere who has created some statistic which proves that the chance of a woman cutting a man is less than getting struck by lightning.

And men are proud creatures, the lot of them.  And rightfully so.  Is that it then?  Can we point the finger at an adult man’s pride?  (A father’s pride?)  Is pride the causal factor?  Is pride the reason that he wouldn’t share with young men that a woman had hurt him?  Or maybe he, the adult man, had never owned up to himself that she had hurt him?  Is this whole mess created by a simple lie?  Is it created by simple denial?  A virtual, “She didn’t hurt me.  I wanted to break up.  I hadn’t liked her for a while anyhow.  I can do better”?

Whatever the causes, I haven’t been able to figure out what words would get through to these men–or as Heat puts it, “All you are is a child growin’ older!”–these men who rush into relationships with women.  And no ‘mounta nothin’ cn talk ’em outta it–don’ matta who doin’ da sayin’.  I know, because I was one of them.  And then I almost repeated the mistake.  And then almost repeated it again.  And if I didn’t have such a hatred for patterns, I probably would’ve rinsed and repeated for the rest of my life.

Enter “old people”.

Turns out, they can hold their own in conversation.  And they’ve got, by definition, no shortage of experiences to back up the talk.  And I was looking for answers, ready to try anything.

So after a lot of listening, and a lot of thinking, the answer finally appeared.  I believe that I am invincible to women.  Or, rather, I believed I was invincible to women.  No longer.  Now, I know the truth.  Women are just as capable of hurting men as men are of hurting women.

So fellas (you know who you are), I have broken down the (our) problem as simply as I know how.  We need to acknowledge the simple, unbearable truth.  This truth is captured by four words, though I think its most effective delivery comes with repeating the words four times in a row, emphasizing a different word each time.

She can hurt you.  She can hurt you.  She can hurt you.  She can hurt you.

What’s the rush?

PS – As a reminder, hurt doesn’t feel good.

Pizza

But what is it?

Not just bread and cheese and sauce, no.  This meal fit for God himself is so much more.

It is the sound of the loveliest doorbell.  It is the acceptable apology for the mealtime “oops!”  It is the welcoming party when the vacation ends.

It is the taste of summertime birthdays.  It is the texture of picking which movie to watch first.  It is the height of soda can towers.

It is the singing clock’s twelve chimes reminding all that Friday is gone.   It is the placing of a small hand into a big one.  It is the compromise between parents and children.

It is soda’s groom.

It is breakfast.  It is lunch.  It is dinner.  It is the substance of every moment in between.

It is nourishment.  And as nourishment, it is life itself.

Is it worthy of worship, this pizza?

Yes.  An unapologetic, unabashed, unable to understand yes.

Review of Quiet, by Susan Cain

The film V for Vendetta has a line which goes, “Artists use lies to tell the truth, while politicians use them to cover the truth up.”  Growing up, I was under the impression that internalizing the latter sentiment was required in order to call yourself an American.  In other words, when I heard the line, the idea that politicians lie was nothing new.  But I can’t say I had ever heard the first part, the part about artists deliberately using lies for good, until I watched that movie.  Neither a politician nor an artist, Susan Cain attempts to simply tell the truth in her book Quiet.  However, Fyodor Dostoevsky (artist) has this to say about telling the truth in his classic Crime and Punishment: “If there’s the hundredth part of a false note in speaking the truth, it leads to a discord, and that leads to trouble.”  My experiences have convinced me that Dostoevsky speaks the truth.  What we want to know, though, is how does Susan Cain do?

As best I can tell, Cain’s thesis in Quiet is that between the two major and decidedly different personality types (extrovert and introvert), in America the extroverts have convinced everyone that their type–their personality–is the ideal personality.  More simply, Cain would like to be Luke Skywalker for introverts and return balance to the force.  Unfortunately, there is quite a bit more than a hundredth part of a false note in her book.  Two of them warrant attention here.  

First, there is a section where she attempts to demonstrate that The West has a history of valuing extroverts, while The East has a history of valuing introverts.  How does she go about this supporting this claim?  Like any rhetorician, she uses proverbs.  One of The East’s proverbs she provides comes from the reputable founder of Taoism, Lao Tzu, and reads, “Those who know do not speak.  Those who speak do not know.”**  Fair enough.  The provided proverb for The West, on the other hand, comes from Ptahhotep.  What Westerner doesn’t have a few ol’ Ptahhotep’s sayings memorized?  For the fuzzy, Ptahhotep said in 2400 BCE, “Be a craftsman in speech that thou mayest be strong, for the strength of one is the tongue, and speech is mightier than all fighting.”**  With writing being a relatively new form of communication back then, this guy may have just been saying the what-might-actually-be-a common western proverb, “The pen is mightier than the sword.”  And, from where I sit, that has nothing to do with extroverts or introverts.  

Maybe Cain just made a little mistake, but still understands the big picture?  I wanted to believe so, too.  But then she added, as her concluding proverb for the perpetually extrovert-loving West, “The squeaky wheel gets the grease.”  Now, I am under the impression that a proverb is prescriptive in nature, not just a true, clever sentence.  I have never heard anyone use that truism in a genuinely prescriptive manner.  Maybe I’m sheltered.  I’ve told people, mockingly, to squeak if they want something, sure, but I’m pretty sure they understood the tone of my advice included that I thought they’d lose a part of their soul for doing so.  I think the bigger problem is that, by definition, there aren’t any proverbs that advise self-promotion and talking endlessly.  Quite the opposite.  The thing about proverbs is they have to stand the test of time to earn the title.  In her research for western proverbs promoting extroverted characteristics, I find it hard to believe she didn’t stumble across “the empty can rattles the most.”  But, then, had she included that one in the book, her thesis would’ve lost some bite, I think.  

The second false note, which is not exactly false, though it definitely calls into question the gravity of the entire supposed problem, is deep into the book.  We find ourselves in the midst of a lover’s quarrel.  It seems that extroverts and introverts are often attracted to each other, which can sometimes result in marriage.  This causes problems, it seems.  For Greg and Emily, the problem is dinner parties.  Greg wants to host them.  Emily does not.  As it turns out, once Greg and Emily learn that Emily’s introversion is not wrong or bad, a compromise can be struck.  Cain’s advice?  Don’t focus on the number of dinner parties, but the format.  She says, “Instead of seating everyone around a big table, which would require the kind of all-hands conversational multitasking Emily dislikes so much, why not serve dinner buffet style, with people eating in small, casual conversational groupings on the sofas and floor pillows?”**  A friend of mine recently enlightened me to a witty phrase that defines Greg and Emily’s situation and I think fits here: White whine.  Seriously though, ladies, if you have multiple sofas and throw pillows that you don’t mind replacing every other weekend after your friends prove they’re not the refined diners you’d like to believe they are, then I can already tell you’re beautiful–we should chat.

Is there an extrovert ideal in America?  Has a (perhaps unintended) consequence been that introverts get lost in the shuffle, or worse yet, believe they should strive to change a part of themselves which cannot be changed and live with the resultant shame?  Susan Cain believes so.  I’m not convinced.  Maybe I’m not her target audience.  In any case, I’m attempting to navigate life using something a good friend taught me recently: “Every person has a story.  If you listen to it, you just might avoid judging them.”  When that doesn’t work, I fall back on Billy Joel’s, “Don’t take any shit from anybody.”  But a bibliography containing only two entries probably isn’t robust enough to get published and entice readers.  I guess if I hope to ever be published, I’ll just have to make it up as I go.

****

*Dostoyevsky, Fyodor. Crime and Punishment. New York: Modern Library, 1950. Print.

**Cain, Susan. Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking. New York: Crown, 2012. Print.

 

How ‘Bout?

A strict father, though one who exercised a parent’s hypocritical initiative frequently, he never let her watch television.  And his list of approved-for-her movies included only three titles: Holiday Inn, White Christmas, and The Lego Movie.  She fell asleep during the first two, and, much to his chagrin, she lacked the context–not to mention the capacity for abstract thought–requisite to enjoy the third.

But every once in a while he would hear her say something that beckoned the playing of a song.  Not just a song, but a music video.  This evening was no different.

Instinctively these days, she knew to flip up the paper-thin seat cushion, so as to not ruin anything if she spilled, before assuming her oddly favorite eating position–one that had the left-half of her body sitting on the chair, while the right-half stood on the creaky hard-wood floor.

“You’re the greatest, daddy,” H- said, much to his delight.  “You’re the greatest, not mom.”

“Hey!” he said firmly, not wasting time on a crescendo, “that’s not true H-.  You’re mom’s the greatest, too.  I’m the greatest dad, and she’s the greatest mom.  Understand?”

“You’re the greatest dad and mom’s the greatest mom,” she recited.

“That reminds me of a song H-.  Have I ever played R. Kelly’s “World’s Greatest” for you?  The song he wrote about the boxer Muhammad Ali for the movie Ali?” he asked, making his way over to the laptop.

“World’s greatest?” she asked, in kind.

“Yeah.  I didn’t think so.  It’s a good one, just give me a sec to pull it up,” he said, trying to remember if the video contains anything a three year old shouldn’t see.  “Okay.  Here it is.”

“Is it the rainbow song?” she asked.

“No, it’s not the rainbow song,” he answered, chuckling as he tried to remember what past video had a rainbow in it.

Like most R. Kelley videos, there was a touch of a melodrama before the music began.  Finally the music started.  Memories and feeling flowed as Kelly sang, “I am a mountain.  I am a tall tree, oh-oh-oh, I am a swift wind, sweeping the country.”  Searching for any sign of understanding or enjoyment on her face, he couldn’t help but get caught up as the song built to the chorus.  Soon he found himself singing along.

“If anybody acks you who I am, just stand up tall, look ’em in the face and say-ay-ay-ay-ay-ee:  I’m that star up in the sky.  I’m that mountain peak up high.  Hey, I made it.  Mmm.  I’m the world’s greatest.”  

“How ’bout-” she began.

“I know, I know, you want the rainbow song,” he interrupted, breaking from the song.

“How ’bout you not sing it, so I can hear it?” she finished.

“Oh,” he said, laughing. “I suppose I can try.”

A View From The Top

“I guess it had to happen sometime.  Wait, no it didn’t.  I can’t believe it happened at all.  Can not,” he said, over-emphasizing the tuh in not.  The car slowly pulled away.

“Was she pissed?” G- asked.

“Huh?” he responded, waking from contemplation.

“The old lady you just talked to,” G- clarified.

“Oh, no.  Well, not about her car wash.  That’s the weird thing.  But she called me a pussy,” he said, still working his way back to reality.”

“What?” G- asked.

“Not just me, actually,” he said.

“So what happened?”

“Let me see.  I guess the best place to begin is with the fact that it is supposed to snow tomorrow.  If we start there, the next step is to divide the residents of this city into two groups, for the purpose of this story.  Group one: residents who, today, think, ‘Gee, it’s a great day for a car wash.’  Group two: residents who do not.  Now, G-, you and I are clearly in group two, right?” he asked.

“Right,” G- answered.

“That old lady, on the other hand, is in group one, right?” he asked.

“Yep, she sure is,” G- responded, enjoying the banter.

“Good.  It’s important that we agree,” he began again.  “Anyhow, I’m sure you heard that she had a dog with a pretty ferocious bark.  When I saw the guys signal that her car was ready, I trotted towards it, meeting her along the way.  I was hoping–as usual–to use engaging small talk and piercing eye-contact to distract her from inspecting their work.  So intent on my mission was I, that I forgot my surroundings; forgot them, that is, right up until the dog that was now standing directly at my side let out another very loud bark, unexpectedly.  This startled me, as I think you can imagine.  I mean, quite literally, I jumped at the sound of it.  Then I began laughing at myself and recounting the moment to the old lady.  I told her, ‘Man that scared me.’  All I got back was a look that I couldn’t place.  I ushered her towards her front door, and that’s when she stopped and said dryly, ‘I think you all are kinda pussies for being scared of my vicious  dog.'”

“She actually said ‘pussies’?”

“Yep.”

“What’d you say?”

“Before speaking, I looked at her hard, because, remember,” he paused for effect, “she’s in group one.  Then I decided her imbalance wouldn’t likely result in violence, and frankly said, ‘Ma’am, I don’t think I deserve to be called names today.'”

“What did she say back?”

“I could tell that she felt my meaning with her heart, but she didn’t back down much at first.  Then she went on to explore, in a dry, lamenting manner, how it surprised her that her dog could cause such fear in so many people.  I explained that I didn’t mean that I was scared of her dog, but startled nonetheless.  It seemed that maybe I wasn’t the first person to comment on the animal today, and she remained in a state of silent query after my explanation,” he continued.  After a breath, he resumed, “I then tried to clarify that, perhaps, unlike the other people she dealt with earlier, I just don’t like dogs anyhow, nothing against hers.  Admittedly, I couldn’t help myself and added, ‘I don’t understand you people anyhow.  Toting your dogs around in your cars and all that.’  I mean, seriously, G-.  Did I tell you I saw a lady with a litter-box, as in a functioning, full of kitty litter litter-box on the floor beneath the passenger seat in the front of her car earlier today?  Dubble-yoo tee eff?”

“How’d she take that?”

“Judging by her expression, I’d say she was genuinely shocked to discover that there exists a human being whose conclusions differed from her own.”

Laughing, G- responded, “Sounds like a pretty big moment for her.”

“We can only hope that the depth of the experience compensates for the brevity.”

 

 

 

The “77% the Height of Adults” Myth About Kids’ Size

Recently, the Wall Street Journal’s online edition published an opinion piece which discussed the questionable raison d’etre behind the little known “Equal Pay Day.”  Only slightly less familiar to the general public is another “day” that has dubious origins.

Nearly a decade ago, April 14th, 2005 to be exact, the federal government acknowledged the plight of kids across the country by establishing “Equal Height Day”.  Much like “Equal Pay Day”, “Equal Height Day” seeks to raise awareness for a specific social injustice–that kids are shorter than their adult counterparts–by adding a second title to the otherwise repetitious monikers (Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday) that help distinguish each complete rotation the Earth makes on its axis.  Though left unsaid, it is clear that supporters of “Equal Height Day” are hoping to achieve a portion of the attention they receive on other dually designated days–notably “Christmas Day” and “My Birthday”.  The trouble with the claim that kids are shorter than adults, however, comes when the supporting data is examined.

To begin, while it is easy to remember that each of us once had to tilt our head back to look at an adult’s face, we shouldn’t let nostalgic feelings affect the science of the problem.  Kids–by definition–are still growing.  Adults are done growing.  Even if it were possible to measure each kid at precisely the same moment and compare the resultant median kid height to the median adult height, the data will have changed before the ink of the report dries, so to speak.

Next, it appears that instead of actually measuring a bunch of kids with a tape measure, the researchers simply went residence to residence and measured existing lines drawn by caring parents on kitchen walls.  But everyone knows that kids use tip-toes when measured at home.

Lastly, and most deploringly, these very same researchers did not even measure the adults who took part in the study.  Instead, they opted to simply ask the adults how tall they were.

This last decision should betray more about the supporters of “Equal Height Day” than just insufficient methods.

Only kids would believe that adults tell the truth.

 

 

 

Block Two

The preacher, the only one in the room wearing a suit, leaned forward, dramatically closing in on the microphone.  His hands grasped each side of the worn, wooden pulpit, a relic which never failed to support his weight in moments like these.  A professional, he drew energy from the room’s silence like Superman would the sun’s rays.  Attendance had been dwindling, but this morning there were more people than he expected.  He took that as a sign.  During this pause, he made eye contact with nearly everyone, and as he scanned the room, he found one unfamiliar face, a young man.  Unlike most past guests, the young man did not look away.

The preacher, at last, continued.

“To be able to forget,” he concluded.  “Sometimes I just want to be able to forget,” he said, repeating his desire, this time without pausing for effect.  “You know me well enough to know first-hand that I sin as much as you,” he said gravely.  “I know me well enough to argue that I probably sin more,” he said, the corners of his mouth rising as he shook his head.  A lone chuckle evidenced that he hadn’t lost his knack for timing.

Unlike recent Sundays, he had something to say this morning.  And while he needed to transport the audience to a place where they felt the weight of the world, he also knew they needed slight relief every so often if they were to feel him lift it completely off at the end.  Picking up the pace, the preacher proceeded.

“I want to be able to forget big things, sure.  Like hate, meanness, selfishness.  But that’s not all.  I want to be able to forget specific things.  I want to be able to forget when I was mean to my best friend.  I want to be able to forget when I yelled, ‘I hate you!’ to my parents.  I want to be able to forget the time that I didn’t share my ice cream with my son,” he claimed, feeling his heart pound like it always did right before he pulled it out for all to see.  “More than that-” he stopped, and re-directed, “I can be honest here, right?  Is that okay with you?” he asked.  A majority of heads nodded in response, and a practiced, deep “preach it!” could be heard.

“More than that,” the preacher resumed, “I want to be able to forget that in each of those circumstances I wanted to do those things.  Those actions were desirable to me.  I wanted to be mean; I wanted to hate; I wanted to be selfish.  If the Lord was standing here right now, and we all got to ask one question, mine would be, ‘Isn’t it enough that we do these things?  Can’t you at least relieve us of our memory of them?'” he paused, nearly choked up.  “But the Lord isn’t here right now,” he said, regaining his composure.  “He isn’t going to intervene and answer my question.  And why not?  Is it because he doesn’t care?  Is it because he doesn’t exist?  No.  It’s because he’s done everything necessary already.  The onus is on us now.  Remember?” he asked.

With a look that betrayed that he didn’t even realize that he had come down from the stage as he spoke, he turned his back on the crowd and walked up the two creaky stairs, returning to the pulpit.  This signaled that he was near the end.

“Remember,” he said, the word somewhere between a command, a statement, and a question.

“Certainly everyone here is aware of the current stress put on living a balanced life.  Eastern religions have the yin-yang concept.  Likewise, when I think of all the things I want to forget, I can’t help but be grateful for one thing that we can’t ever forget–Jesus of Nazareth.  He came.  He spoke the truth.  He gave us hope.  But he also convicted us.  So we killed him for it.  Did it have to happen that way?  I don’t know.  I just don’t know.  But it did.  And if we ever forget that, I’m not sure we won’t forget hope altogether.”

 

 

Still Timeless

Happy that she chose waffles over doughnuts, he found himself preparing the batter when she called to him from the couch.

“Daddy, come lay with me.  Don’t you want a little rest before breakfast?”

“H-, you know I’m cooking.  If you wanted to lay, you should’ve said something earlier.”

“You’re cooking?”

“Yep.  It’s almost done though,” he responded.

“Why you keep saying almost?” she asked.

“Do you know what “almost” means, H-?” he asked, genuinely curious about her response.

“Not done yet?” she answered, her voice betraying a modest level of hope.

“Sure.  It means not done yet.  But so would lots of words.  How close does “almost” mean?”

“Fifteen?” she guessed.

His smile grew as her answer reverberated in his head.

Proudly, then, he cooed to himself, “She’s learning.”